


slow burn

by Xorxos Brook (cdra)



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Burnplay, Dissociation, Identity Issues, M/M, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-06-08 00:10:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6830983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cdra/pseuds/Xorxos%20Brook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gilbert snaps, Xerxes breaks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slow burn

**Author's Note:**

> I made a pun. B)
> 
> The original file of this is merely saved as "um........." which is reasonably accurate to how I feel about it.

He should have known--should have known how honestly close to  _ snapping _ the raven was, that something was a bit wrong with him from the get go tonight, that pressing his buttons could lead to such a predicament--mostly, he should have known that his own guard was so relaxed.  Because now he's trapped by arms much stronger than his fragile bones, held surprised with his back against a bed--he's still got his feet, so he can get away, so it's still alright, besides only being Gilbert.  He gives a quirky grin and chuckles, despite having been yelled at so to shut up--he's not good at such things, after all.

“My, this is quite  _ perverse _ of you, Gilbert~” he hums, still faking that he's relaxed even as all his nerves wind up to spring.  The younger's grip tightens more and there's something off in his gaze, something that makes a chill hit the Hatter's spine--it's strange on more levels than one, and he's certain that it spells trouble.  Something happened to Gilbert, he can sense it--but he’s not sure what it could be, not yet.

“ _ Shut up _ ,” the Crow insists, again, growling low and with a real threat buried in it--Xerxes jerks his legs upward, ready to kick the other aside, only to feel his body slammed down again  _ hard  _ as Gilbert’s knees lock on either side of his hips.  This position is as embarrassing as it is compromising, he realizes, but the Hatter is trapped by the weakness of his body--he can’t fight against a human in such a position, which is why he never should have ended up in such--

Still, Xerxes writhes in place, hoping to dislodge himself as his captor fiddles with something.  “Gilbert, what’s gotten into you?” he wonders, a bit more strong of voice now; he can feel the danger in the air as his hair stands on end.  In a few more seconds his wrists are evidently lashed together with a wide belt--he’s more afraid than he’s been of anything but himself in a long while now (but he doesn’t like the kind of familiar this is), but he only lets frustration show in his grimace.

Vaguely, Xerxes remembers a conversation between the man and his brother--but what could the sewer rat have placed in this child’s head?

“You never listen to me,” he says, glowering as black feathers begin to float behind his body; “We’re going to fix that, is all.”

* * *

 

He hates the sound of his voice like this--weak, torn, breaking up under the pain--but he’s lost the ability to contain it by now as Gilbert grips at his bare sides, fingers laced with  _ fire _ as he positions Xerxes’s fragile body to his whims.  The Hatter writhes, anything to distract from or possibly stop the pain, but between those strong hands and the belt that’s lashed his own to the headboard so uncomfortably he can’t possibly escape.

“Gilbert, stop-- _! _ ” he hisses, a pleading edge finding its way into the words, and the Crow does remove the flame from his fingertips for a moment.

“Will you listen to me, now?”  It’s nothing short of a demand, far too authoritative to come from useless little Gilbert, and the albino shudders--he’s afraid, much as he hates to be, but he’s exposed and vulnerable and weak like this and even though he’s snarling a little the pants of breath he’s drawing are a dead giveaway of his state.

“Yes,” without hesitation, almost spitting, he acquiesces, but surely they both know how cheap his words are.

“Prove it,” comes the raven’s next order, punctuate with a lick of flame that makes Xerxes seize up and gasp in shock--he’s tried teasing Gilbert for how  _ cruel  _ he’s being already, but it hasn’t had any impact at all. “Apologize.”

The Hatter’s distaste for the words is obvious, but still, he hisses out “I’m sorry--for my rudeness.”  Did he mean it?  Did he mean anything he said?  He doesn’t really know, but he often says and does things he doesn’t mean at first.

Gilbert’s expression is still oddly empty, an everywhere and nowhere kind of look--he’s not looked Xerxes in the eye most of the time that this has been going on, only looking at the burn marks he’s leaving, and even now he’s staring blankly at the elder’s bared hips.  What had brought him to such a state?  He wouldn’t answer, only muttering about how Xerxes should have more respect for him--

“Better.  But do you really mean it?”  It’s such an awful, accurate question; Xerxes swallows as the other pushes his legs upward, taking his trousers with the motion (or what remains of them, charred to the point of falling apart at the waistband).  He leans over the smaller man’s body, still staring at the marks on his torso (Xerxes hates that, the way he’s looking at his injuries old and new).

The position is familiar in an awful way and the Hatter twists his body, as though that could get him out of it, only to find large hands again pressing him downward with incredible force.  “If you mean it, then say it with respect.  I may be younger than you, but I’m a Nightray now--you should speak to me like one.”

Xerxes only ever uses the title with Gilbert when polite company’s around, or when he’s being a bit disparaging--because Gilbert never held any love for it, never really considered himself a noble, never carried himself like one or anything like that.  He is an obsessed servant, a weak child--but in this moment, he really does feel the part of a cruel authoritarian.  “I’m sorry,  _ milord _ ,” he offers, sincerity strained.

_ Not good enough _ \--or so the curls of flames against his thighs say.  Xerxes bites back a yelp, catching it into something like a sob--his tone is more frantic as he repeats the apology, eye going wide.  Gilbert seems more satisfied with it the second time, halting the burning sensation again; his victim is shaking, no longer used to pain so sharp and external.

“Better,” he provides again, leaning a bit closer--one hand supports him by the Hatter’s head now, and black feathers flutter behind his form as he draws inexplicably ragged breaths.  “Now, call me Master.”

Xerxes is taken aback, yet again, only managing a “what?” before a new sort of pain rocks his lower body--ah, but it’s not quite new, not entirely, but the memories it dredges up are dark and distant indeed.  A wrecked, strangled sob makes its way out of his throat, and he’s entirely disgusted with how weak he is.

The raven rocks his hips, smirking a little as the other gasps in an attempt to acclimate to the pain, twisting back and forth; amid his discomfort, Xerxes wonders how can he be enjoying himself to this sort of extent.  Even if he’s been called sadistic himself, he’s not sure how Gilbert could be capable of this--but he remembers the problem at hand, and he gives a dry smirk of his own.

“Now  _ that’s  _ awfully perverse--” at this point, he won’t be able to spare himself much discomfort, so he may as well be snide--but of course, Gilbert only thrusts harder, threatening wisps of flame brushing over pale skin, and Xerxes clenches his teeth with a small hiss.  “ _ \--Master _ .”

Too little too late, perhaps--the pain’s not easing up, only growing more rhythmic and forceful and it’s beginning to split through his mind, making him gasp and moan in something not at all like  _ pleasure _ \--and those dirty memories are playing at the surface of his mind as he again hisses the word and can’t help but think of the person he used to call that.

“Master, please--” Xerxes decides he may as well use it now, if it has any chance of saving him, as his voice has weakened and is beginning to break, “--please,  _ stop-- _ ” but the pressure doesn’t stop at all, his mind’s threatening to go blank and Gilbert’s labored breathing by his ear is a distant but resonant sound.

\--something goes strange in his head as Gilbert’s nails dig into his shoulder; fear breaks through his expression and he begins to tremble, tears threatening to fall from his eyes (even if one of them is empty).

“I’m sorry, Master--” he pleads, tone strained and higher than before, lighter and yet carrying much more weight--his gaze is as blank as Gilbert’s was before as he stares into the space between their bodies.  “I’m sorry--forgive me, please--”

The Raven stops for a moment, likely caught off-guard by the sincerity and pain in the other’s voice.  “Break?”  He wonders, still breathing hard as he finally looks to the albino’s face to find such a distant expression.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he sobs, tears welling up in the corners of both sockets--but he can’t possibly be forgiven, after all he’s done, this sort of torment would only be a natural result, wouldn’t it?  Even if he fell to Hell and was subjected to pain far worse than this for an eternity, would that it really make up for what he’d done?  “Forgive me,” his voice cracks again, begging having grown unnatural for it--but he couldn’t say when that happened.

Gilbert grins, still too mad with the moment to draw anything but satisfaction from the strange turn of behavior, and resumes his pace; Kevin continues to cry out, snatches of apologies and pleas for forgiveness caught in his throat.

* * *

After it’s over, Gilbert’s senses seem to stabilize--but the elder is still crying, shaking, and he immediately hides his face when his hands are free to do so.  Guilt hits the raven like a tidal wave, a sudden and violent return to the realm of sanity--and he lets the Hatter fall into his chest, still begging for forgiveness, as his heart falls deep into his gut.

“I forgive you,” he manages, uneasily placing a hand around the albino’s back; he flinches at it, understandably enough.

A red eye turns up to him, teary and wide.  “How can you?” Kevin all but whispers, curling inward more tightly to hide himself and his exposed form all at once.  “You know what I’ve done, don’t you?  So how?”

Feeling sick with himself and the sight of the other so pitiful, Gilbert throws his coat over his mentor’s back--though he hates to look at him like this, he manages to do so, staring him in the eye to answer his question.  “Because I know,” is a simple answer, but it works, “I’m not your Master, but if I were, I’d forgive you--so, isn’t it about time you shut up about that and got over it?”

He’s met with a completely disbelieving stare, blinking slowly in wonderment.  Gilbert can’t stand that kind of look anymore; he pulls his coat together over the other’s chest, prompting that red eye to glance downward as well.  “I’ll… I’ll get some ointment.  For the burns.  Just rest.  And… I’m sorry.”  And with those words, awkward and cracked as they are, he stands up, adjusting his state just a bit before leaving, not waiting for the Hatter to answer--he’s not sure if there’s any answer he could accept.

With the raven gone, the one-eyed man falls down onto the bed, body growing numb to the various new discomforts--he has quite the pain tolerance, after all.  But his head’s a different story--his mind has taken years to heal, in the past.  He curls up, letting the black coat cover his pale body; he can’t bring himself to struggle under the still-mostly-made sheets, so this will have to do.

As he drifts off into an uneasy sleep, Xerxes huffs a bit--Gilbert is awfully useless, and he always will be.


End file.
